


The End of the Chase

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Series: Scenes from a War-Forged Courtship [17]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aeron Tabris, Aeron/Alistair, F/M, Tabristair - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 06:29:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6144607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year's worth of struggle and fighting, and it all comes down to this, a duel against Loghain Mac Tir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Uneasy Breakfast

Dawn. Aeron is awake before Alistair. She runs through her morning routine as swiftly as she can, as silently as she can. One of them should get as much sleep as possible. Seeing as he isn’t the one who has to duel a man to the death in a few hours…

True, the rules say “to first blood” but really, what point is there in lying to herself? Winning means the chance to sever Loghain’s head from his shoulders—to get what Alistair calls _justice_ and Anora calls _pointless revenge_. Losing puts not only Aeron’s own neck to the blade, but possibly also Eamon’s and certainly Alistair’s—and probably in reverse order, assuming Loghain Mac Tir’s the sort who enjoys mentally breaking his enemies before dispatching them.

_But let’s not get ahead of ourselves._

Aeron sits cross-legged on the floor before the fireplace, her eyes closed. Starfang rests across her lap. She focuses on the pattern of her breathing. For the first time in a long time, her mind feels clear. There is quiet. Not quite peace, no, but—

The bedframe creaks and Aeron’s ears twitch in response. She holds her breath. On the bed, Alistair yawns. He settles. He stays asleep. Aeron exhales slowly.

_Good._

She tries to remember the breathing exercise Leliana taught her. How did it go?

_“Breathe in, 2, 3, 4—hold it, 2, 3, 4—”_

And breathe out, slowly, for the same count. With each intake of breath, Aeron feels her spine go fully straight. Her shoulders roll back. Her head lifts. She almost feels… _powerful_ , for want of a better word. The feeling slips away with the air that passes from her lips. Her shoulders roll forward. Her spine gently contracts as Aeron curls in on herself. She tries to let her body become completely relaxed. _Go slack_ , she tells herself. Something does not let her—the over-honed sense of alertness that pushed her out of bed well before the sun, perhaps.

_“Breathe in, 2, 3, 4, 5—hold it, 2, 3, 4, 5—”_

And out.

_“Try not to focus on anything. If a thought comes, do not hold onto it. Let it slip away from you.”_

Easier said than done. Undesirable things come to Aeron’s mind. The memory of her windpipe forced shut. The snap and crunch of bone under force. Bodies slumped over in empty, bloody hallways. How does she let these thoughts go?

_“Breathe in, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6—”_

Aeron holds her breath. The bedframe creaks, the blankets shuffling against the mattress. Her ears twitch up again. Alistair is turning over in his sleep. He is trying to reposition himself into a more comfortable position. He murmurs something indecipherable—

And then he goes quiet.

_No._

There is a sharp intake of breath, a gasp.

_No!_

The air burns in Aeron’s chest. She balls her hands into fists.

_No, no, no, no! Go back to sleep—!_

“Aeron?”

The air rushes out of her, fast. She drops her head. He sounds so drowsy still—like maybe, _maybe_ , if she uses the right words or the proper tone—

Too late. The opportunity, if it was ever there, is long gone and passed into the past. She does not need to look to know Alistair is sitting up and watching her; slouching over the blankets half-covering his lap, scratching a path up the back of his head as a prelude to smoothing out his mussed hair.

“I felt you get out of bed,” he says, voice still rough and tinged with sleep. “I thought maybe you’d come back.”

“I meant to…” Aeron turns her head as she hears him get up and shuffle over. “I just… I couldn’t stay asleep.”

“I could tell. You were restless all night.” He gives her shoulders an affectionate squeeze and kisses the top of her head. “Do you want to sneak down to the training yard and run some drills? When do you have to do this?”

“They want to convene at three to finalize the terms of the duel. And no. I don’t…” Aeron draws in a breath. “I know it’s crazy—I should—but I can’t think about combat. I can’t get my mind to focus on it. Can’t seem to think about anything except…death, actually.”

An unhappy note rises from Alistair’s throat. “That’s…not a good thing.”

“I know.” She reaches up and rests her hand over his. “Don’t let me keep you, Alistair. I think I’m just going to…sit here a bit longer, I guess.”

“Okay.” Another affectionate squeeze; Aeron tilts her head and Alistair kisses her cheek. “I’ll be back.”

She waits until she hears the bedroom door close before trying to clear her mind again. She breathes in and her chest expands as she counts. She holds it in. She lets it out slowly, slowly, slowly. With another slow breath in—

_—two, three, four—_

—the thoughts are a little less violent. She pictures faces.

_Hold it._

Shianni’s shortly after rescuing her from Vaughn; fearful and hopeful and angry all at once. Loghain’s upon their first meeting in Ostagar; tense, time-worn, sharply skeptical their presence will make any difference.

_Out—two, three, four—_

Aeron thinks of her father after rescuing him from the slavers, his pride shining through his relief as she stood before him. She thinks of Alistair’s face after escaping Fort Drakon, his concern for her only slightly masking his fear as she stood with so much blood spattering her armor.

_In—two, three, four, five—_

How many days has it been since that escape? Aeron can’t remember. She remembers looking at a calendar and realizing it has been almost a full year since she left home. Imagine it, a year spent marching around and camping and fighting—

_Out—_

When Alistair returns, he pushes a little cart loaded with breakfast for two—hot oatmeal, sliced red apples and white cheese, rich Antivan coffee. As they lay out the spread on the floor between them, he points out the little pot of raspberry jam, remembering how Aeron enjoys it so.

“And I just thought—I mean—sometimes oatmeal by itself can be so _bland_!” Their fingers overlap as Alistair hands her a cup of coffee. “Then again, it’s wholly likely that years of eating what passes for a ‘good breakfast’ in the abbey has ruined the experience for life.”

“It’s certainly been a nice change of pace from rice or old bread—assuming you’re even lucky to get that much some days.” Aeron frowns a little. She sets down her coffee cup and takes up her jam and oatmeal. “They should be getting up right about now.”

“Your family?”

She nods. The sweet, tarty smell awakens her appetite. “I was kind of hoping I might get a chance to see them again before we left. Just briefly, maybe to bring them more supplies or just…just spend some time with them, y’know? Whatever I could.”

It occurs to her, as she slips the spoon into her mouth to savor some of the jam by itself, that the concept is foreign to Alistair. What has he had to remotely resemble family except Eamon, or the sisters of the Chantry, or Duncan? People charged to look after him or train him, yes, but not necessarily _family_ in the same way that she had one.

Except, of course, for the Wardens. And they, like all the rest, were ripped away by circumstances beyond his control.

“Maybe it’s better if I don’t,” Aeron says finally.

Alistair tilts his head. “Why not?”

“Too final.” She watches the way the jam lands in globs on the surface of the oatmeal. “Too many things I’d have to explain, not enough time to explain them properly… I mean, not that there _is_ a right way to explain how you’re going off to fight a giant dragon and its many deformed henchmen, is there?”

“I’m afraid they left that out of the handbook,” Alistair answers.

“Well…”

They fall into silence as they eat. It’s good, the food. The apples are crisp, the cheese soft… The oatmeal is not, in fact, bland, but the occasional burst of raspberry certainly helps the flavor. As far as potentially last meals go—

“It should be me.”

Aeron blinks. She looks over at Alistair and finds him looking right back.

“It should be me. I should be the one… Not you.” He shakes his head, lips briefly curling into a grimace. “Not you. Not anyone else. _Me._ This fight should be mine. He knows it, too. Loghain? He knows that this—this fight or this duel or trial or… _whatever_ they want to call it—it should be him and me, but he—”

A blended note of disgust and disbelief rises from the back of Alistair’s throat. Aeron quietly notices that his hands are trembling, that his breath shakes. It occurs to her almost all at once that he is _angry_ , fully and truly _angry_ , and that he is trying _very hard_ not to let that overwhelm him.

“Loghain has taken so much from me. I knew a time would come when I would face him, when it would be him and me, and I was ready. I was _ready_ for that moment. Now he’s stolen from me again and if he has his way—? If he wins this—”

Alistair’s voice cracks, splinters into smaller sounds and heavier breathing. The trembling has spread from his hands to the rest of his body. He drops his head. This isn’t just anger Aeron is seeing from him.

“Alistair.”

This is fear. Alistair is well and truly afraid, more afraid than she has ever seen him, and it is starting to overwhelm him.

“Alistair? Hey—” Aeron shifts and settles on her heels in front of him. “Alistair—”

“I can’t stand aside and watch him take you from me,” he tells her in that broken voice. “I can’t, Aeron. I won’t _bear_ that—”

“He won’t. Loghain doesn’t stand a chance.” She tilts his face toward hers. “Alistair? Look at me—”

The fear on his face is disarmingly vivid. His eyes shine with the panic of _what might be_ ; the idea that Loghain might kill her, that Alistair might be forced to watch this and do nothing to stop it. Without another word, Alistair reaches out and pulls Aeron to him. He presses his face against her shoulder. His arms are tight around her, trembling hands gripping fistfuls of her shirt. Aeron wraps her arms around him, cups the nape of his neck, and braces herself for the first run of sobs—

“ _Do not_ let him take you from me. Please, Aeron.”

“He won’t.” She rubs his back. “I promise you, Alistair, he won’t. Not Loghain, not the Archdemon… No one will take me from your side.”

Silence. Does Alistair believe her? It’s impossible to figure out. He still trembles in her arms. His breath comes and goes in little shudders. He does not let her go. All he does differently is turn his head and press his ear against the place above her heart. He barely makes a sound when Aeron lets the weight of her head rest atop his.

It only makes her wish that he would cry instead.


	2. A Time for Strategy

They try to make the best of what time they have left. Alistair spends the rest of the morning holding Aeron against him. He tells stories of his childhood in the abbey while playing with her hair. He asks her to tell him more about life in the Alienage, the rhythm of his questions uneven as he gropes for proper phrasing.

“And the, ah, giant…tree in the center—is that for…anything special or is it just…decoration?”

Aeron’s ears perk up. “You mean the vhenadahl?”

“That—the…” Alistair’s brow lowers and his eyes narrow. He is trying to commit this word to memory. “What is it called again?”

“Vhenadahl,” Aeron repeats, the word as easy to say as breathing. “Vhe-na-dahl.”

He spends several moments repeating the word to himself. _Vhenadahl. VHE-NA-dahl. Vhena…DAHL? Vhenadahl._ It is strange to hear it from his mouth, the syllables clunky and misshapen, and it makes her a touch homesick. This, she keeps to herself.

In the lull between their stories, Alistair kisses her—quick pecks to her cheeks, the crown of her head; reverent ones to the backs of her hands, her fingers; tender ones against her lips. Aeron is content to let him dote. If it will make him calmer about what lies ahead, it’s fine. It’s important.

The suggestion of sex to deal with this stress crops up once, twice, and is dismissed with jokes. (Bad luck. Too exhausting. When Aeron suggests that it makes a better reward than sendoff, Alistair lets out a genuine laugh.) They share a bath together, though, and Aeron dotes on him there—washing his hair, scrubbing his shoulders and back… She delights in running her fingers along the freckles of his skin. She finds amusement in the way Alistair still blushes in her presence.

“Alistair. Seriously? You’ve seen me naked how many times—?”

“It’s still—you’re just—you know—” Alistair gestures to the whole of her. “You’re really—”

“Alistair, _we’ve had sex_. Multiple times! Sometimes more than once in one night—!”

“Not so loud!” He warns her, blushing more furiously, but there is a small smile on his lips. “Eamon might hear—”

Aeron gives a snort. “If the dear Arl didn’t hear us last night, I think we’re fine.”

And Alistair is too flustered to respond as she climbs out of the bath, but she can feel his eyes on her. Not that she can blame him, not when her own gaze shamelessly lingers on his body as they dress. Only hours away from risking her life yet again, and instead of focusing on battle strategy, she spends her time ogling a man instead—and a human one, at that! (The scandal it would cause in the Alienage, imagine it.) But how can she help herself? Those broad, square shoulders; the solid, stocky frame with its small pouch of a soft belly; those strong arms and firm legs—

“Are you staring at my backside again?”

Aeron tilts her head. “It’s quite the view.”

“Maker…” Alistair shakes his head as he pulls on a shirt. “I’ll be careful not to stand backwards during the duel, no matter how much I’d rather not watch.”

“Maybe you should!” She rises from the bench where she has been sitting and approaches him. “An arse like yours—” And he draws in a short gasp when she playfully slaps it. “—that’s a good reason to stay alive.”

“Oh, is it, then?”

“Among others. There’s also the strength of your arms, the skill of your hands—” Aeron drops her voice. “That _thing_ you do where you roll your tongue—”

“Ahh. Aha. Okay. I get it now,” Alistair says, wagging a finger in her direction. “I know what you’re trying to do!”

“What’re you talking about?”

“You’re trying to distract me with flattery and flirting, aren’t you?”

Aeron frowns a little. “Is it working?”

“Not really. I’m still just as terrified.” Alistair tucks her hair behind her ear. “Will you let me braid it for you?”

Back in the bedroom, Aeron gives him her brush and her most reliable black ribbon. She sits at the foot of the bed and tries to keep herself as still as possible. A single braid straight down her back, she tells him. Today is not for anything fancy.

“You aren’t worried Loghain might try to grab it in combat?” Alistair asks her.

“Loghain’s an underhanded bastard, but I honestly don’t think he’d be _that_ underhanded in front of all the Landsmeet,” Aeron answers. “In any case, I don’t plan on letting him get close enough to try.”

She thinks about making another joke—adding, as casually as she can, that Alistair will remain the only man allowed to pull her hair—but the mention of Loghain redirects her thoughts.

“What can you tell me of Loghain’s approach to combat?”

He wasn’t ready for the question. She can tell from the way his fingers have just fumbled in her hair. Truth be told, Aeron meant to ask Alistair much sooner—over last night’s dinner, before he pulled her into bed, before they fell asleep, over this morning’s breakfast—but it never felt appropriate. It felt too much like accepting the very real risk attached to their situation and letting the terror in.

Well, the terror is in. Better now than not at all, right?

“Loghain.” And the name comes out weighted with so much hatred, she almost expects to hear it land on the floor. Alistair runs the brush through the temporary ponytail he’s made of her hair. “It’s strange, really. The sword is not his first, ah…language, if you will. They say he’s more at home with a bow in his hands. Not that I’ve ever seen him with one, but…”

“Hm.”

Aeron tries not to move her head. Her hair is long and he is always so intent on doing it _right_ , on making sure that not a single strand is left out. He always gives it so much focus…

“That’s not to say he isn’t handy with a sword, but you definitely have an advantage on him there. You’re a natural with a blade, even if you _are_ a bit…you know, stompy—”

“Stompy?”

“You know. Heavy with your foot planting and such. You’ve always been—”

“Stompy. Me? _I’m_ stompy?”

Alistair lets out a little huff. “It’s not a _bad thing_ , Aeron! It’s just—you know, it’s an—it’s an observation! Just things you notice sometimes on the battlefield or in training. You’re very stompy. Makes you good at all those heavy swings you do, since you’re able to follow through without the momentum carrying you off your balance.”

“Hm.”

“On that note,” he continues, “remember that your shield is for _defending_. Remember that you’re smaller than he is—”

“I’m smaller than most of the people we come across,” Aeron reminds him.

“Yes, well, keep that in mind this afternoon. He certainly will. He’ll certainly try to use it against you, try to knock you off your feet…”

Her finished braid lands gently against her back. Aeron glances behind her. Grim worry has returned to Alistair’s face, and she knows nothing short of coming out of the duel alive will banish it.

Their fingers overlap when he gives her the brush. While she puts on her boots, Alistair fetches her sword and shield. Their fingers overlap as he gives her Starfang in its scabbard. He offers to carry her shield into the main hall, holding it to him protectively, and she agrees.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

Alistair drops his gaze. He shakes his head. “No. Just…show him no mercy.”

That part will be easy.


	3. Dueling for Honor (and the Fate of Ferelden)

They make their way down to the main hall a handful of minutes before three. In the night, the servants removed the impressive length of carpeting, leaving the bare stone floor with naught but old dust to keep it company. Half of Ferelden’s nobles are already there talking amongst each other. (Arl Eamon is among them, offering the quickest of nods as they pass by him.) The rest continue filing in. They join the preexisting conversations or start their own little circles of chatter. Aeron spots Sten and Oghren in the crowd; one stone-faced and towering over everyone around him, the other offering a genuine expression of encouragement. (It hardly comes as a surprise. When have those two ever missed an opportunity to witness a battle?) A flash of movement directs her gaze to where Zevran stands on the balcony, hidden in plain sight. He is the one who subtly points out Leliana’s location on the main floor, dressed in her Chantry robes as she talks with a woman dressed much too well to be some mere lady-in-waiting. Their gazes meet, quick enough that someone else would second-guess the gesture.

Aeron nudges Alistair, pointing them out to him with her gaze. “Looks like we’ve got backup.”

He nods once, approval flashing quickly through his eyes, but says nothing. His mind is clearly elsewhere. His fingers drum against the edge of her shield.

The chatter descends as Anora appears from a door near the throne and approaches the center of the main hall. Loghain enters shortly after from another door, Ser Cauthrien in step with him. A pin could drop in the room now; Zevran and Aeron would not be the only ones to hear it land.

Next to her, Alistair draws in a deep breath. Aeron wishes she could hold his hand.

There is a smirk on Loghain’s face as they join Anora. “And here I expected you might run back to the comfort of your hovel and its ramshackle walls. I apologize. Seems you _are_ a creature of some honor, after all.”

Next to her, Alistair bristles. His fingers are probably curled tighter around her shield’s strap. He is probably biting the inside of his cheek again. Aeron dares not turn her head to confirm her suspicions. Instead—

“Accusations of abandonment? From you? The irony going on here is the stuff of bards.” Aeron crosses her arms. “A pity you picked the swordsman’s path instead.”

Loghain’s mouth twists in disgust. “Enough of these pleasantries. Let us proceed with the duel!”

“First, a reminder of the terms!” calls Anora, and Aeron wonders if she is the only one who thinks the queen spoke much too quickly after her father. “We are nothing without our adherence to order and tradition, are we not?”

“Truer now more than ever,” Loghain answers. “Proceed.”

Aeron turns her focus towards Loghain as he stands listening to his daughter. How much _kinder_ he looks, with all the rapt attention and appreciation she recognizes from years of seeing it on her own father’s face. Loghain looks so much smaller without his armor—still taller than her, obviously, but also somehow less imposing. Even with the grey sneaking into his hair and the years of hard fighting showing on his face, Aeron can almost see the handsome young man he once was; the “hero of River Dane” so adored by the country he so fiercely loved and defended.

What would that young man think, to see himself as he is now?

“So we’re agreed, then,” Loghain says, snapping her free of thought. “A trial by combat to first blood, wearing no additional armor, and by virtue of our skills with sword and shield alone.”

“It’s certainly fairer than most deals I’ve been offered,” Aeron answers.

“Then we’ll not delay the moment any further,” Anora says, stepping away. “Whenever you both are ready, you may begin.”

The two combatants retreat to opposite sides of a ring they silently establish themselves. Sten and Oghren have somehow made their way through the crowd. They greet her with stern faces and assuring nods. Alistair quietly slips the shield over Aeron’s arm and adjusts the straps without being asked. She tries not to think about the reason why, only lets him do it.

Their gazes meet and there is no need for more words. Alistair lets her go gradually, his hand slipping out of hers as Aeron steps back.

She only turns her back to him when she has to.

Loghain is already waiting on his side of their circle. He looks like he might as well be waiting for some pet to come trotting up to his side, not his dueling opponent.

_It’s an act._ The thought has traces of her mother’s voice. _He’s doing it to goad you. See through that. Don’t react. He will win otherwise._

Instead, Aeron draws her sword. The gentle glow from Starfang’s blade draws gentle gasps and inspires whispers from the crowd. Even the teyrn looks vaguely impressed. He looks like he might want to claim it for himself.

_Do not think like that. Your blade is an extension of your arm. If you waste time fearing someone will take your arm, then you have already lost it._

They stalk the perimeter of their ring, tension building. Aeron can feel his gaze roving over her, landing on her throat, sneaking under the crook of her arms; it lingers on her chest, skims over her stomach and thighs. Loghain is trying to find her weakest point—she _knows this_ ; she is doing the same to him—but it still reminds her of the old days in the Alienage. That awful sizing up by entitled shems who came with coins to throw at desperate girls—

_Ignore it. You are no longer prey. You are not his prey. You are not less than him._

They are equals. They are wolves refusing to concede. Refusing to submit.

Aeron stops. Time slows to a crawl. The world sharpens, becomes more vivid in color and sound—

_There it is._

Right off, as they meet in the center, Aeron determines two things. The first is that, when actually pressed to fight, Loghain prefers a strong offensive strategy. Aeron is used to grapplers, to bashers and brawlers. Loghain’s attacks remind her of a beast whose only focus is to tear apart what stands in front of them by force of strength. When he cannot crush her with a rain of blows, he tries to dig his shield beneath her own to open a way for his sword. He tests her.

The second thing occurs to her as she finds an opportunity to throw her weight into shoving him with her shield. The teyrn, despite looking smaller without his armor, is still something of a right proper heavy bastard. He barely even staggers.

_Oh no—_

He shoves back, hard, and she staggers. She keeps her shield in front of her, but she staggers and the look on Loghain’s face as he eagerly takes the floor space she has to give up…

_No, no—_

Aeron is forced to defend, defend, defend—and she can do it, she _has to_ , but this will wear her out. That’s the point, isn’t it? That’s what he wants. Not to fight her, not really.

_It’s chase. He’s playing a game of chase._

And isn’t that what this entire year has been? Even as they courted favor with the Dalish and the dwarves of Orzammar, even as they helped the mages and rescued Redcliffe; they have been on the run and buying time since Ostagar, with Loghain and the darkspawn heavy at their heels.

This is the chase in its final stretch—and he is finally catching up.

“I say!” Loghain calls to her. “You haven’t had a sudden change of heart, have you?”

Aeron remains silent. It would be a distraction to retort, to even think of something to say. She has to ignore the way her left arm is beginning to vibrate with discomfort from the steady rain of blows against her shield. She has to make her evasions seem flawless, planned from the start. In that brief window between space exchanges, Aeron pulls her shield to her and rushes forward with all her weight leaned into the movement. Loghain actually stumbles this time, backpedaling one, two, three steps—

Aeron charges again, shield pulled to her chest, ready to release it at _just the right moment_ —

_No—STOP—!_

Somehow, the bastard has enough control to sidestep Aeron’s second rush and her momentum carries her one, two, three steps too many. Loghain’s footsteps are marching heavy, fast. She turns towards that sound, instinct saving her from the blade trying to cleave through her neck. Their blades clang together and it is a _relief_ , somehow, to finally hear that sound. It is a blessing. It is second wind.

It’s an epiphany.

Loghain watches her with a curious eye as they back away and begin to stalk the ring; both of them sweaty, shoulders heaving and faces flushed. Aeron can hear the whispering start and can guess the words.

_Why have they stopped fighting? What is she doing? Is something wrong with her arm?_

_Why is she setting her shield on the floor?_

The teyrn knows. Aeron can see it on his face as she draws herself up straight. Without a word, he slips off his own shield and sets it on the floor beside him. Anora calls for someone to clear them away. Ser Cauthrien rushes over nearly before Anora finishes the request. Alistair comes forward like a man called to the gallows. Aeron wills herself not to look. Focus on what lies ahead. The risk is higher now. One wrong move, one single misstep…

She can do this. She knows she can.

There is something about the way Loghain puts down his left foot in comparison to his right—heavier, like it troubles his balance to leave it in the air too long. He grips the handle tightly in his right hand. What is he doing with his left? Nothing. Loghain’s shoulders are hunched. There is a subtle rasp in his breathing. An old man’s rasp. An old hound still trying to prove the strength of his bite.

_I am not his prey. I am no one’s prey._

Loghain moves a fraction of a moment before she does, but Aeron is ready, redirecting the trajectory of his sword with her own. He draws his body away before she can land a strike. Loghain sidesteps another attempt at advancement. Aeron follows. She claims the space he leaves between them, truly hungry for combat. How dare he try to deny her this! After he spent so much time pursuing her, trying to get underneath her defenses— _now_ he chooses to run? _How dare he!_

“We’re not in Ostagar, Loghain—you have to use your sword here!” Aeron calls.

A flash of anger runs through his eyes. His lips curl back over his teeth. The strength behind his swings is suffering from a new unevenness in his delivery.

_One-TWO, three, four—FIVE—_

Starfang pulses a brighter blue each time it collides against Loghain’s sword. Is it bothering him, these flashes of light? She has no time to watch his eyes.

_One-two-THREE, four, five-SIX—_

Aeron twists herself out of the way of a sure slice—practically _twirls_ , really—and she has time to think of how Leliana will probably mention it later, how graceful she looked.

_ONE, two, three, FOUR-FIVE—_

He is getting tired, isn’t he? She can hear his heavy breathing, the _grunts_ forced out of him with each step he slams on the floor. His left foot is bothering him and he is doing a terrible job of hiding it. He swings, misses, swings again and finds her sword waiting. Aeron watches Loghain’s lips curl back in another snarl and it makes her unreasonably amused. Frustration! Yes! Let it bother him that _an elf_ is better at swordplay than him. Let it anger him that this young upstart from the shittiest part of Denerim can outlast the damned grand hero of River Dane in trained combat. Let Loghain Mac Tir _seethe_ with knowing that she and Alistair are the ones who survived and accomplished the impossible task of courting favor with the Wardens’ old allies; who turned his own hired assassin into one of their closest friends; who now come to end his dreams of living in comfort with Ferelden’s crown in his back pocket.

_ONE-TWO-THREE, four—five—SIX-SEVEN-EIGHT—_

If Aeron must fall to the Archdemon, she will at least do so with the comfort of knowing she put this brilliant flash of anger and frustration on Loghain Mac Tir’s face.

_One, TWO, three-four-FIVE-SIX-SEVEN—_

And then it happens, almost too fast to process in the moment; Loghain charges, Aeron dodges, and then _suddenly THERE IT IS, the opening she needs—!_

Loghain stumbles backward. He drops to his knees, sword clattering to the floor between them. He clutches a hand to his right side. The only sound is their heavy breathing and Anora’s footsteps as she rushes to her father’s side. Nobody stops her.

“The teyrn is wounded!” cries one of the nobles on the balcony. “The Warden has drawn blood!”

Aeron sees no blood on her blade. “Show your hand, Loghain.”

“He is on his _knees_!” Anora says. “Is that not enough?”

“The rule is to first blood! If he isn’t bleeding, he needs to get back up and fight,” Aeron says, raising her sword in his direction. “But if he will not fight—”

Her words are cut off by Loghain’s haggard laughter. Even Anora looks surprised. “And here I’d underestimated you, Warden! I thought you were like Cailan, a child wanting to play at war. Less, even, because at least Cailan came from better stock. Clearly, I was…mistaken.”

He struggles to rise to his feet, eventually deferring to Anora’s assistance. Murmurs ripple through the crowd as they watch the situation unfold. With no change in his face, Loghain holds up his hand for all to see the shine of blood on his fingers.

“I see it now, why Duncan chose you; there is a strength in you that I have not seen anywhere since Maric died.” He drops his hand. “I yield.”

“And it will be with your life,” Aeron answers.

“Hm.” Loghain nods once in concession. “I would expect to pay no less a price.”

“No—!” Anora’s eyes widen. “Warden Tabris, please consider—”

“Consider _what_?” Alistair approaches from the crowd, gaze hard to match the edge in his voice. (The shield is absent from his arm—passed off to Sten.) “Where was his consideration when he left Cailan to die?”

“Putting my father to death will not bring Cailan back, any more than it will bring back your fallen Wardens or restore the land that was lost,” Anora argues.

“No, but it will mean justice has been done in their name. It will put their souls to rest.”

“Theirs? Or your own, Alistair?”

Alistair’s fingers curl into tense fists. Aeron tries to shift herself between them as inconspicuously as possible—

“There is another option!” Riordan pushes through the crowd to reach them. “If I may, there might be a way for this to work in our greatest favor.”

“What do you propose?” asks Anora.

“The teyrn is a warrior and general of great renown. No one can deny that. I say, let him be of use.” Riordan pauses a moment. “Let him go through the Joining.”

Aeron barely need glance at Alistair to know that no amount of reasoning will get him to agree with such a plan. Still, the question must be asked.

“Why?”

“There are only three of us in all of Ferelden to defend against the Blight,” Riordan points out. “Apart from the sheer power of the beast, there are other, more compelling reasons to have as many Wardens on hand as possible to deal with the Archdemon.”

Anora looks uncomfortably hopeful. “The Joining itself is often fatal, is it not? If he survives, you gain a general. If not, you have your revenge.” She locks her gaze with Aeron’s. “Isn’t that enough to satisfy you?”

For only the briefest of moments, Aeron considers that it might be enough.

And then she remembers the moment of seeing her father in that cage, the trail of blood and broken bodies that led her to him; she recalls the smell of death and fear in the house where Rendon Howe tortured so many.

“Absolutely not!” The sharpness of Alistair’s voice startles her from the thought. He turns to their fellow Warden. “Riordan, it was _this man_ who abandoned our brothers and then blamed us for the deed! He hunted us down like _animals_ and dared to sell Aeron’s people into slavery! Even you were victim to his torture. How can we simply forget that?”

“Alistair is right. Giving him a place among us would dishonor the memory of those he left to slaughter.” And Aeron dimly wonders when her own voice gained such coldness.

“You can’t do this. Please—” Anora draws forward. “Warden Tabris, this man is my _father_ , flawed and wrong though he has been. He is the only father I will ever have. Must I forget my crown and beg of you to spare his life?”

“Anora, hush.” Loghain reaches out to set his hand on her arm, but is stopped by guards who take hold of his wrists. “It is over. I accept that. You must as well.”

“Do not presume to treat me like a child!” she cries, turning to him. “This is serious! This is your _life_ they wish to take!”

He sighs deeply, shaking his head. “In the eyes of their fathers, daughters never grow up, Anora. They remain six years old with pigtails and skinned knees forever.”

“Father…” Anora’s eyes brim with tears. Her face is full of unchecked sorrow, hands balling into fists. She draws in a breath. “At least give me the evening with him, that we might have time to say our goodbyes. Say you will grant me that much.”

“I will.” Aeron ignores the piercing look she can feel coming from Alistair. “Under the supervision of a guard and one of my companions.”

Offense flickers briefly across Anora’s face. Perhaps she thinks it an intentional twisting of the knife? It isn’t. This is necessary. Certainly, Anora has to understand that. She must, because she does not argue against it. Instead, she instructs the guards to take Loghain away. She quietly accepts it when Aeron asks for Leliana to act as a chaperone for the rest of the day. There is an agreement to reconvene an hour after dawn, when Loghain will meet his end.

And like that, it’s over—for the moment, at least, like a play at the end of yet another act or a book at the end of another chapter. By chance, Aeron catches Arl Eamon looking at her from the crowd. Something about his expression… It sends an uncomfortable prickle up her spine. Why does he look so disappointed? They’re getting what they wanted. Loghain will be out of the picture, soon, and Anora is—

Aeron nearly jumps when Alistair’s hand comes down on her shoulder. They both apologize. He shuffles uncomfortably for a moment.

“So I’m…never one to tell you what to do,” he says, “but might I have a word?”

A word, sure, or several; as many as it might take to explain herself to him, the only one she feels deserves anything close to an explanation.

“Not here,” Aeron says.

Alistair nods. He does not press the issue. She tries not to think too hard about why she feels relieved.


	4. And in the Aftermath, A Moment of Honesty

The hours after the duel pass in a strange blur punctuated by moments of vivid activity. There is a private discussion with Eamon, Alistair, and Anora about tomorrow’s execution. Formalities, really. After one more failed attempt to ask for mercy, Anora spends much of this discussion in silence, her expression unreadable. Alistair, too, spends most of it in silence, but more out of uncertainty about how to contribute. (Occasionally, he glances in Aeron’s direction, eyes questioning. Aeron resists the impulse to reach for his hand.) Arl Eamon dominates the talk, doling out details about the procedure for tomorrow’s execution.

And then Aeron suggests that Alistair should be the one to do it, and Arl Eamon practically trips over his own words. He also seems to be the only one who looks surprised by this idea.

“Of any of us, Alistair has lost the most to Loghain’s plotting. The duel should have been his to fight.” She catches Alistair’s gaze. “Let him have this.”

The arl makes a thoughtful sound. He looks at Alistair with that same strange expression Aeron saw him wear in the main hall and she does her best to swallow back discomfort.

Still, it barely surprises her when Arl Eamon argues that she should do it, that tradition holds her to that task. (Aeron tries not to show her displeasure at the word.) It barely surprises her, too, the unspoken notion that he would rather _her_ hands get dirtier with more blood instead of Alistair’s. What truly surprises her is how they both quietly accept it, nodding grimly, mutually wanting more and more just to get away from all of this—even if just a little while.

Maybe that’s why they go to the Gnawed Noble after. The atmosphere is loud, welcoming. News has spread fast and people are eager to greet her—this elf, this woman who felled the teyrn. Oghren and Zevran are already there, celebrating. Soon as their eyes meet, Zevran launches to his feet; gets away with one of his tight hugs and a kiss to her cheek without Alistair’s normal protest.

“Come!” Zevran leads her by the hand to their table. “Tonight we put thoughts of battle aside and raise our glasses to you!”

Alistair looks around. “Where’s Sten?”

“At camp, informing the others.”

“Which is probably where we should be, instead of celebrating that I’m beheading someone tomorrow.” Aeron slumps into the booth. “There’s still the Archdemon to think about, after all.”

Oghren gives a short, loud laugh as Zevran busies himself with a wine bottle. “You think I’m gonna pass a chance to drink from the top shelf?”

“And I do recall someone reminding us to celebrate what victories we earned, correct?” As if on cue, the cork escapes with a loud _pop!_ Zevran looks pleased. “This is a victory. We celebrate!”

Aeron frowns a little. “It still feels a little in poor taste.”

And yet, she does not refuse the glass of red wine Zevran sets in front of her; nor does Alistair turn away the mug of ale that Oghren slides in his direction. They remain mostly quiet as Zevran recounts the gossip he picked up while lurking among the nobles. Most of it is frivolous. Apparently, there was a betting pool going over who would win.

“The odds were three-to-one in your favor!” Zevran looks almost proud.

Aeron blinks. “In _my_ favor? What kind of rumors did you spread to make that happen?”

“Three-to-one? Nug’s balls.” Oghren twists his face in disapproval. “Down where Sten and I were, the odds were _ten_ -to-one!"

Aeron sets down her glass. The wine is good—sweet on her tongue, smooth as it goes down her throat and settles as a warm flush in her belly. She cozies up next to Alistair and feels his left arm slip around her waist as he raises his glass.

“So,” she asks casually, “how much did you each win?”

Alistair chokes on his ale. Oghren and Zevran exchange surprised looks. They reach into pockets and toss her little satchels fat with coins.

“We agreed it was the only proper thing to do,” Zevran explains.

_“We?”_ Aeron smiles. “Oghren, I’m touched! You really do care!”

Oghren grumbles something into his pint glass, but there is an unmistakable glint of pride in the dwarf’s eyes. Alistair clears his throat a little.

“Yes. Well. As long as we don’t get to making a habit of this…”

They linger in the tavern until the sky begins to fade into dusky shades of orange and purple. Aeron’s head is swimming with the wine and the Gnawed Noble’s heady atmosphere. Exhaustion from the day’s events is beginning to sink down into her bones. Tonight’s sleeping will be heavy and dreamless. She is almost looking forward to it.

But then they get alone—as well and truly alone as they can be in their bedroom at the arl’s estate—and Aeron remembers that Alistair has not yet asked her about this afternoon. Even as she enjoys the relief of letting her body fall across the bed—

“Tired?” Alistair settles at the foot of the bed.

“Exhausted.” Aeron breathes in, exhales in a deep sigh. “If I never have to duel for my life again, it will be too soon.” She reaches for him. “Come here.”

“Your boots—”

“Later. Just come here.”

He lands on his back next to her with a muffled sound. Aeron reaches for his hand, weaves her fingers between his, and Alistair gives her an affectionate squeeze. Neither one moves. They do not speak. This is enough, to be in each other’s presence. It is grounding. A comfort. A safe haven, in its own way.

Alistair draws in a deep breath. Aeron braces herself.

“Why did you do it?”

The question washes over her. Why? Why, indeed.

“I want to say that…that it was pity, maybe, or compassion—that I looked at Anora and I saw…you know, a little girl about to lose her father and I was…moved, I guess. I don’t know. It felt fair, giving her some kind of mercy.

“It’s a tactical thing, too, I guess. I mean—it’s—” Aeron lets out a short huff. “We need the support of her army, Alistair, as much as we need Loghain out of the picture.”

She shuts her eyes. Alistair’s hand is so very warm in her own. His thumb brushes back and forth across the skin of her hand.

“It’s all shit, though.” She turns her head and finds him already looking at her. “It’s none of those things at all.”

Alistair’s brow furrows. “Why then?”

“Satisfaction. Vindication, maybe. Just… I don’t know if I can define it clearly enough. It’s just this… _feeling_ that I get from knowing that for the next few hours, they have to live under the same sense of inevitable dread that I have lived with all my life—the sense that something bad _will_ happen, something bad that they cannot stop—and I…”

Aeron swallows back the rest. It is petty. Vengeful. Surely, unbecoming of a Grey Warden!

Besides, what would her father think?

Alistair pulls her into his arms and Aeron does not resist. He unties the ribbon in her hair and gently undoes her braid. A wonderful shiver runs down Aeron’s back as his fingertips press against her scalp and he begins to scratch, scratch, scratch…

“You are too good to me,” Aeron murmurs.

“I love you,” Alistair answers. “And I won’t tell a single soul.”


End file.
